The Death Eater's Daughter
by handmedownrobes
Summary: Harry Potter wakes up on a street corner with no memory of the night before and a very suspicious-looking tattoo. But this typical right of passage takes on some dark implications when Harry realizes that the tattoo might be part of a nefarious plot orchestrated by the Dark Lord himself. AU.


_A/N: Your eyes don't deceive you - I'm at it again. This time with an outline, which (hopefully) bodes well for the story. I've figured out what I want to do with this story and where I want to take it, and it's a bit different than it was before but I'm hoping you'll still be interested. Sorry about this chapter - it's a bit heavy on the exposition. But I've got some setting up to do before we get into the real action. I figure I should give you all something to look forward to, though, so at the very end of the chapter I'll include some light spoilers about what's coming up next. If you don't want to read them, just don't read the end notes for the chapter. Thank you all for staying with me! I really appreciate it. _

Chapter One: Duo Fiunt Una Caro

The residents of Hogsmeade were accustomed to all manner of odd occurrences. Living in such close proximity to a mass of magical teenagers who didn't need to hide their abilities often meant that the residents witnessed many things most people, even in their world, would refuse to believe. Since things nearly always seemed out of place nothing was ever truly _in_ place, and things that might have caught attention in other places rarely ever did.

One foggy morning in mid-October a sixteen year old boy found himself waking on the pavement in front of a dingy magical tattoo parlor on a sidestreet in Hogsmeade. The townspeople rushed past him, eager to begin their days, without so much as a glance in his direction.

Harry Potter of Gryffindor House of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry searched for his glasses on the cobblestone pavement. He sighed to himself, blinking through the blur in his vision and trying vainly to shake some of the fuzziness out of his skull. He took inventory of the events of the night before but the last thing he could recall was being led into the passage behind the one-eyed witch, his best mate Ron Weasley and his house-mate Dean Thomas each dragging him by a hand and promising him a night he wouldn't soon forget. The irony of it was not lost on him.

_Where the hell are they?_ he wondered. It wasn't like either of them to leave him sleeping in the middle of the street. He was seized with a sudden worry for them both, but he pushed it aside. _You can't sort anything out if you can't see a bloody thing_, he reminded himself. His fingers finally brushed a hard metal rim. Grinning triumphantly, Harry put on his glasses, which were almost unbearably cold, and squinted out into the street. It looked like Hogsmeade. The difficult part was that all of Hogsmeade looked like Hogsmeade, and unless one was traveling along the main road, it was nearly impossible to navigate the labyrinthine paths between the houses and shops of the town. Harry let out a sigh and eased his weary body into a standing position.

His head swam a bit, and he fought off the faint sensations of nausea and vertigo, but they passed quickly. He realized that he'd been passed out in front of a magical tattoo parlor, which for some reason made him aware of a slight stinging in his left palm and a burning around his ring finger. He brought his hand nearer to his face and studied it. He found a surgically precise and well-cleaned cut, extending from just below his pinky to just above his wrist, cutting diagonally across his hand. But it was the other thing that _really _made him panic.

Encircling his ring finger was a tattoo comprised of words that looked both vaguely familiar and unnervingly foreign to him. The letters shifted slightly as he looked at them, seeming to writhe under the force of his gaze.

Harry frowned, feeling for his wand in his pockets (and internally scolding himself for not thinking of that sooner). He took it out and gently set the tip of it on the tattoo. It lit up in a flash. Momentarily blinded, he jerked the wand away, and the light immediately dimmed. More confused than before and choking down bile, Harry went into the shop to investigate.

The inside of the tattoo parlor was, to Harry's slight surprise, even more dodgy than the outside. He'd been in tattoo parlors before. In Surrey, he'd found himself traversing the entire county in fits of boredom, looking for something worth seeing in a sea of identical, perfectly pruned hedges. Because most of the residents of Little Hangleton despised him, Harry often frequented the favorite spots of misfits, delinquents, and oddities. There weren't many to find, but he made do.

The shops he'd visited were all dingy and vibrant in a way that the rest of Little Hangleton could never manage. They were some of the few places he'd been to in the Muggle world that felt as though real, _interesting_ human beings actually inhabited them. When he was younger they had held a certain fascination, one that was quickly forgotten with his introduction to the magical world. It had helped that most of the tattoo artists in his favorite parlor knew him by name. The owner of the shop, a beefy Cornish man named Hound, took great care to engage Harry in a conversation. He patiently answered all of the questions Harry had, which were numerous, and sometimes gave him snacks as well. The parlor was like a sanctuary, constantly filled with the soothing hum of electric needles and idle chatter.

This tattoo parlor was nothing like anything Harry had ever seen. It only had one large chair, with no side table for the tattoo machine and needles, looming in the centre of the room and lit by a single, dim spotlight. The entire place was dark, gloomy, and absent of any kind of decoration. It looked like a doctor's office from some demented horror film. It was also completely deserted.

"Oi! Anybody in here?" His voice reverberated across the room. "OI!"

He wandered down the hallway past what looked to be the receptionist's desk, though what they needed a receptionist for with only one chair Harry couldn't fathom. The owner hadn't left a single light on. "Lumos", he said, his voice filling the space like a scream.

"Who're yeh, and what's yer business here?" a gruff male voice demanded from behind him.

Harry whipped around, finding himself facing a stocky, medium sized man whom he guessed to be in his mid-forties, although his hair was a uniform brown. His face was craggy and cut with deep, dark shadows in the harsh light of his wand. Harry wouldn't let this man faze him.

"I think I'm a customer," he said acidically, drawing himself up to his full height. "Do you give tattoos out to drunks often?"

The man glowered at Harry. "No, I don't, yeh todger. Now get out of ma bleedin' shop," he growled.

Harry glared back and attempted his best Hermione impression, which was generally what he did whenever he was faced with a Big Problem that required Adult Conversation. "Really? Then how exactly did I manage to wake up outside of your sodding parlor with a tattoo I don't remember having had before?" He crossed his arms, more irritated than angry. (It did look a bit cool. The placement was unfortunate and very worrisome though.)

The man shot him a look that would have been classified as 'murderous' on most people, but didn't seem too different from his normal expression, and shook his head. "I don't remember yeh. Now get out, we're not open." He took several steps forward, effectively pushing Harry toward the door.

"Look, I know I got it here. Where else would I have got a tattoo in Hogsmeade? The whole town is about five kilometers wide, and I don't know of any other tattoo parlors."

"That's 'cause there are none," the man responded, visibly exasperated.

"Then how the bloody hell do you think I got _this_," he shoved his hand in the man's face, "then?" he asked through clenched teeth. The man sneered.

"How the bleedin' hell should I know?"

Harry closed his eyes and attempted to breathe calmly. When he judged himself to be only about half as furious as he'd been before, he spoke again. "Just tell me how to get it the hell off, then," Harry demanded. "Please," he added, somewhat desperately.

He put his hand out in front of the shorter man's face, showing him the tattoo and leaving it there for inspection. The tattoo artist grabbed his hand firmly, muttering angrily under his breath at first, and then becoming quiet as he read the inscription. After a pause, some dark comprehension seemed to dawn in his eyes and he began to shake his head furiously and back away.

"Yeh sure as hell din' get that here, and if yeh tell anyone yeh did I'll hex yer balls off. Now get out! Get out!" His eyes blazed as he shoved Harry out of the shop.

Harry's rage was now edged slightly with panic. He blinked at the redness in his vision, feeling the dull, cold fear that was settling into the pit of his stomach spreading. He needed to find Ron and Dean so they could explain to him what had happened, and then he needed to find the one person he could rely on to set things right.

"Harry James Potter," said the brown haired witch, "I cannot _believe_ you." She was trying, and failing, to muffle her giggles behind her hand as she inspected Harry's left hand. "What in Merlin's name have they done to you?" she asked in a softer, but no less amused, tone.

"I can't read a bloody word of it," Harry complained. "It's probably in gibberish."

Hermione Granger, sixth year witch and researcher extraordinaire, snorted loudly. "I rather doubt it," she replied. She squinted at the writing around Harry's finger. "It looks like Latin," she muttered. "Certainly not a language that's been in use any time in the last century, that's for sure. Who did you say the artist was?"

"I didn't," Harry said distractedly. "The guy in the shop denied doing it. Right panicked when he saw it, as well."

Hermione frowned. "That's odd."

"Yeah, it was," Harry said, picking up a piece of toast with his free hand. "But tattoos, even the magical ones, don't actually _do_ anything, right?" He looked around absently for Ron, but kept seeing flashes of his sister Ginny's identical red hair instead. He then looked around for Dean Thomas, who was also absent. He'd combed the streets of Hogsmeade for them both, but a sharp hunger and his growing hangover eventually forced him inside. He couldn't completely erase his instinctive and automatic fear for their safety, but the mental voice that always reminded him of Hermione convinced him that wandering around in the snow, weak and jacket-less, was not the most efficient method of trying to find them.

He felt a hand on his own. "Harry," she said, concern shining in her eyes, "I think they actually might."

His attention snapped into focus. He looked down at the ink, feeling slightly queasy. "Wait, you don't mean that this could have… properties, do you? Like, magical ones?"

Hermione met his gaze, sympathetic but resolute. "I think it's definitely something we need to look into."

Harry breathed out slowly. "But the placement of it - you can't," he lowered his voice to a slightly hysterical whisper, "_compel _anything with a tattoo, can you?"

Hermione looked down at his hand, a dubious expression on her face. "I don't _think_ so, but Harry," she cautioned, "going on looks alone, this is not good. It's a tattoo on your ring finger, it's clearly magical, we don't know what it says, and we have no idea how you got it."

She frowned. "Where were Dean and Ron while this was going on?"

Harry sighed in frustration. "I have no bloody clue. I couldn't find them in Hogsmeade, but I was pretty out of it."

Hermione set her delicate jaw in that familiar act that was still slightly intimidating, in an endearing sort of way. "I haven't seen them in the common room or the dining hall since last night," she told him.

"Has _anyone_ seen them?" he asked, feeling the eggs and toast he'd just swallowed churning in his stomach.

Hermione set down her fork. Brows furrowed, she looked around for someone to ask. "Ginny!" she called across the table. The redhead turned toward them. "Have you seen Ron?"

"Or Dean?" Harry added.

"Yeah!" she yelled back. "I passed Ron as I was leaving for breakfast; said something about a rough night," she snickered, before noticing the murderous expression on Hermione's face.

"Why? What did he do this time?" she called.

Hermione shook her head, silently fuming. Harry scarfed down the last few bits of his toast and the rest of his pumpkin juice and stood, trying to ignore the aching pops of his joints as he did. "I'm going to go look in the dormitory," he informed her.

She nodded. "I'll look in the prefect's bathroom," she replied. "We can meet back down here in ten minutes if we don't find them."

Harry bounded up the steps to the Gryffindor boys' sixth year dormitory, taking them two at a time. He replayed the conversation with Hermione, her words interspersed with the mantra, _please let Ron have an explanation_. His blood pounded loudly in his ears, his heart floating sickeningly in his chest, waiting to drop. This was a reaction usually reserved for battles and dark wizards. He imagined he could feel the ink in the tattoo pulsing against his skin, trying to claw its way out of him.

He threw open the door to his room. The loud bang that ensued as it reverberated off of the stone wall behind it was ear-shattering. Several heads poked out from beneath duvets as he passed; one of them groaned loudly at the clamor. Most of them weren't overly fond of him anyways, and this was an emergency, so Harry didn't dwell on it. He weaved through identical four poster beds until he made it to the last two, one on his left and the other on his right, in which his two friends continued to sleep soundly.

The curtains to their beds were open, revealing rubbish bins which emitted a foul scent on the floor beside them.

Seized with a sudden bout of rage, Harry strode over to Ron's bedside and shook him awake. The Ron-shaped bundle in his hands emitted a long, low moan. A long, pale, lightly freckled arm emerged from beneath its blanket to swat at Harry's face.

"GET UP," Harry roared.

Ron pulled the covers down in a huff. "Fuck off, Harry," he growled, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

"YOU'RE BOTH BELLENDS. I'VE BEEN OUT ALL MORNING TRYING TO FIND YOU AFTER YOU LEFT ME ON A BLEEDING STREET CORNER AND YOU'RE FUCKING NAPPING?" he screeched.

Ron sent him a withering glare. "I think you're overreacting a bit here, mate," he said drowsily.

"Overreacting?" Harry asked after a deep breath, his voice lowered and now deathly calm. "You think, after the Ministry, the tournament, and everything, that when I wake up on a street corner without a bloody clue how I got there, and my best mate _gone_, that if I'm panicked I'm _overreacting_? I thought you might be _dead_, you fucking dick."

Ron stared at him, the rest of his face blank, with a mutinous fire raging in his eyes. He appeared to be battling quietly with himself. After a pause he said, "Right, because you're so _special_. Because it's not like this shit doesn't happen _all the time_ to anyone but _you_. No one else in history has ever woken up on a street corner and walked home to find his friends in bed after a night out, right?"

His voice was tinged with something dark and wild, and it began to pick up volume. "We took you out because you've been out of it since Sirius -" he seemed to choke on the word. He cleared his throat and continued, "Whatever. Not everything has to be about Voldemort, you twat. And not everything has to be about _you_."

Harry was shocked into stillness. He'd jumped slightly at the sound of Sirius' name; hearing it alone was enough to send a painful jolt through his body. He was gripped by the throat by some hideous, clawed thing. He didn't know how to say it, but _something_ was swirling around in his brain, something he needed to express. He was so _furious_, so _afraid_ - but what was he afraid of? He didn't know, and that frustrated him. He chased the words, but they slipped away from him and disappeared.

Harry clenched and unclenched his teeth, balling his hands into fists at his sides. His fingernail came down on the still-healing cut, sending shockwaves of pain through his palm and a spike of awareness through his muddled brain.

"Do you know what happened?" he asked tersely, holding his hand up for Ron to look at. Ron frowned, indignation still written plainly across his face, eyes rolling, and reached for Harry's hand. He grabbed Harry's wrist, pulling it towards his face to get a better look.

Ron frowned, muttering quietly. "_Duo fee… fiunt una caro_," he read, his brow furrowed. "Where did you get this?" he asked, raising his eyes to Harry's.

"I don't know," he replied with a glare. "I figured you'd remember that bit."

Ron pressed his lips together and shook his head. "This doesn't make any sense," he said sharply. "This isn't a tattoo. You don't just _get_ something like this - I don't think it's even _legal_ anymore. And it's definitely against the law to perform it on someone who's drunk. There's _loads_ of paperwork you need to fill out before they'll give you a licence to get it. _This is a spell_."

Harry's heart lurched into his clavicle. "What kind of spell?"

Ron ran a hand through his hair, blinking slowly. "It's ancient," he said slowly, "and out of use now. My dad told me about them once when I saw a mark like that on my Great Aunt Eunice in some photograph. There are a few variations, I think. It was used to bind two people together - it's a ritual."

Harry snorted, despite himself. "What, like _marriage_?" he asked, quirking up an eyebrow.

Ron stared down at him, a shade paler than he'd been before. "Like marriage, but worse," he said gravely. His voice dropped to a whisper. "It's literally unbreakable, until _death_."

_End Notes: Next up on The Death Eater's Daughter... Harry has a mid-teen crisis, the Golden Trio tries out some amateur detective work to determine who Harry has married, a suspect list is made (and Draco Malfoy is on it - of course), and Gryffindor takes on Slytherin in a history-making quidditch match! _


End file.
